Wolf Sense
by lovingcaptainswan
Summary: "Everything is going to be okay, Snow." Post coital Snowby. Oneshot. Rated for language and light sexual situations.


The scent of arousal is so thick in the air of the smallest apartment in Fabletown, if he hadn't just had sex, it would choke him.

Sometimes it almost drives him crazy, having wolf senses in a human body. He knows when she's afraid, when she's upset (…_when she's aroused __– now__ that_ had been an interesting day at the office). The slightest of visual cues, the vaguest flush to her skin or shift of the smell in the air that most of the other Fables would never even have an inkling had happened at all, _he_ notices.

The added awareness is part of what makes him a halfway decent sheriff.

He can read people, always has been able to, and it comes in handy often enough. It's second nature. Passing details he's always been aware of, like background noise that he more or less ignores if what it's saying is of no use to him. He can tell when people are nervous or tense even if they're trying their damnedest to hide it (it's a smell, he thinks), he can hear the tiniest changes of pitch in their tones. He can read their body language like he would crouching prey preparing for flight, and because of all that, he usually has a good idea if he's being lied to.

Yeah, the wolf sense isn't so bad most days, but _god damn it_ when it comes to Snow.

_She smells sweet. _

Even now, bare, porcelain skin glistening with sweat from exertion, she smells so damned sweet to him.

Her breasts are pressed to his chest, her skin as soft and smooth as velvet and more than just a few times nicer to touch. Her dark, tangled waves of hair are tickling his neck and chin whenever she takes in a shuddering breath and she just smells like god damned _Heaven_.

It's not her perfume, or the lavender scented laundry detergent she's used as long as he can remember, or even the dab of maple syrup that she didn't notice had dripped onto the edge of her skirt this morning at breakfast. No, her distinct, natural scent to him is honeyed sweet - something he instinctively associates with a mate – and he's learned to avoid the temptation to breathe in deep when she's close.

She shifts on top of him, letting out a breathy, pleased sigh and he can feel every muscle of hers is limp, relaxed. She feels boneless atop him, yet she's light as a feather as she buries her face into his neck and finally, _fucking finally_, nothing is stopping him from nuzzling into her hair and breathing deeply as his hands trail paths up and down her back, shoulder blade to ass as their breathing evens together and their bodies melt one into the other.

The scent hangs there now, combined with the musky aroma of sex and Huff n' Puffs, heavy, the smells of both of them mixing, mingling into something only the wolf in him could appreciate as utterly_ intoxicating_ and the man in him can't help but appreciate at least a little bit for what it is either.

He could breathe in the fragrance, this moment, for days.

(After all, he's dreamt about it for years.)

But _she_ can't.

It only takes another minute and then he can feel her come back to herself, muscles tensing and even breaths stuttering as she remembers that she's lying on top of Bigby Wolf and not waking up from some vivid dream.

His arms tighten around her mechanically, an urge both to soothe and to keep his new mate close to him causing him to react without thinking, only to loosen them just as quickly when she tenses even further.

"Oh my god," she mumbles in a small, lost tone of voice.

(God, he wants to keep touching her, to pet and kiss and suck and lick down every perfect inch of her until she relaxes again, to do everything they didn't have time for in their frenzied coupling, everything that he can't do now.)

"_Shit_."

Snow flattens her palms into the carpet on either side of them, pressing herself up until her breasts are swaying in the air above him and Bigby raises his brows, lips quirking into a lazy smirk, despite the voice in his head panicking, begging her not to go, not yet.

"Not exactly the reaction I was expecting…" He draws a hand up her back and rubs gentle circles up and along her spine, while the fingers of his other hand plays at her hips.

It is, actually, _exactly_ what he expected, but he would never let _her_ know that. This was one of the greatest moments of his sorry excuse for a life. He could never tell her that he's dreamed about this moment for decades now, and yet, deep down inside, he's always known that she would regret it.

Who wouldn't regret him?

He's an asshole with a badge that most of the town is afraid of, with a past even darker than the cases he works. How could someone as pure and beautiful and well-meaning as Snow fucking White, a woman used to damn princes (that break her heart) want him for more than a moment of damn weakness?

He's no fool.

"Oh my god, Bigby."

He can feel his hope for this turning out the way he wants it to ebbing, yet something inside of him is still scrambling to hold onto her just a little bit longer (like the animal that he is).

Snow rests her forehead in the palm of her hand, eyes wide and confused.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god."

"Everything okay?" He props himself up on his elbows. "You kept saying that earlier too, but I get the feeling this time is a little different," he drawls with a lopsided grin.

She shoots him a look that says he's stepped out of bounds (because apparently having sex and then mentioning that it happened is out of line) and makes an irritated sound in her throat, quickly crawling off of him.

Bigby lets out an unconscious growl at the loss of her warm heat around him and the weight of her on his body as he watches her retreat back into herself. Back into cool, jaded, abused, cheated on, used Snow - the woman who has been hurt so many fucking times she doesn't know how to be anything but cold and defensive when she gets scared.

She stands abruptly, reaching for her hastily discarded clothes and doesn't say another word until she's halfway dressed and searching for her blouse, posture stiff and tense.

"Jesus Christ, Bigby, can you say something?" she mutters, glancing at him, but only meeting his eyes for a split moment before looking back down at the undone buttons of her blouse. "We just had _sex_."

He cocks his head to the side and fights every urge in him to pull her into his arms and tell her that it's alright, that she doesn't have to be afraid of him like everybody else, that she doesn't have to_ leave_.

(Because after all this time, Snow White is all it takes to make the Big Bad Wolf go soft.)

Instead, he shrugs.

"Yeah, I _think_ that's what the kids call it these days."

Snow rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Shit. Shit. Shit." She glances around with a frantic sort of nervousness (he can feel the tension in the room rising) picking up a shoe and then her socks before meeting his steady gaze again. "Bigby, I shouldn't have- _we_ shouldn't have-"

His heart sinks even further as he watches her try to think of a way to say that she wishes they hadn't just slept together and he almost wonders why it feels so much like a punch in the gut if he's known it would end up this way all along.

"_Snow_…"

"Bigby, I'm your boss."

He sighs and finally stands, all nonchalance and none of her nervous energy as he reaches for his jeans that are messily draped across the top of his armchair. He swallows, unwanted images popping into his head at the sight of it. They had started out in the faithful, plush old thing, but somehow ended up the floor.

(He's not sure he'll ever be able to look at that chair or his carpet the same way again.)

"Sure. In a manner of speaking."

Snow's face contorts into annoyance that reminds him of the old Snow that he's always known, pausing with only one heel on to glare.

"In a manner of-"

"-_but _you were still kind of the boss here too," he goes on with a playful smirk.

(Shit, he can see her riding him, red lips parted, head lolled back when he fucking blinks, he can still _feel her_, fuck.)

"So I don't see a problem," he goes on, as if another casual joke might help smooth things over, like this wasn't a relationship defining moment that would probably change things forever.

Snow clenches her jaw and huffs. "I'm serious, Bigby. I shouldn't have let it- _this-_" she stammers, then stops, shaking her head. "I have been under _a lot_ of stress, and then this whole thing with Crane and the murders-"

"Snow, stop," he interrupts in a calm, gentle tone that he probably learned from her. He's learned a lot from her, and she doesn't even know it. "Listen, it's _fine_."

She takes a deep, unsure breath, eyes troubled but trusting. "**_Is _**it, Bigby?"

"Yeah." He shrugs again. "It'll be okay."

"Will it?" she sighs and runs a hand through her hair, leaving it even more of a haphazard mess than it was from his hands.

(He wishes he could tell her how beautiful she is.)

"Christ, Bigby, we still need to work together, and then there's this case. God, I've been so selfish," she whispers, more to herself than to him, covering her mouth with her hand. "Those girls are _dead_, and I'm-"

"_It'll be okay_, Snow," he repeats, crossing his arms over his still bare chest. "We can-" he shakes his head, mentally smacking himself for what he's about to say. "We can just pretend it never happened, alright?"

She eyes him cautiously, but he notices the subtle slump to her tensed shoulders, brow unfurrowing.

She's _relieved_.

(Of course she is.)

"Really?"

"Sure," he assures her, feeling like a damn liar. "We're adults, right?"

"I- yeah, yeah, of course," she smiles finally, back straightening as she breathes out a sigh. "Good. Let's just… yeah, we can table it for now?" She asks hesitantly, relief flooding over her expression as she adjusts the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

He smiles back compliantly, fake, wondering if she notices.

"Yeah. Whatever you want, Snow."

She hesitates at the door and he jerks, remembering that it's midnight and they're in the middle of a murder investigation.

"Snow…" _Stay. You can have the chair. You won't even have to see me. God, you're fucking pathetic, Wolf. _"At least let me walk you to your place."

"I'll be fine, I'm just a few floors from here," she replies, pursing her lips and pausing before looking up in his eyes again. "_Thank you_, Bigby."

He cracks a smile, digging his hands into his pockets and leaning against the old chair. "What're friends for?"

She smiles again, nods, and then silently slips outside of his apartment.

Bigby slumps into his chair with a sigh as the home that he couldn't give a rat's ass about being the smallest place in Fabletown for the first time feels too quiet, too empty, too small (and _fuck, he can still smell her)_.

He reaches for his pack of Huff n' Puffs, placing one between his lips, and flicking his lighter to life. He tries not to think about her straddling his lap and whispering how much she needs this, scrunching his eyes shut and breathing deep until the familiar scent of the thick, choking tendrils of smoke slowly drowns out her sweetness.

He smokes it until it burns his fingers and then he lights another before the smoke clears enough for him to smell her again.

_Damn._

_Damn his fucking nose and whatever other parts of him never let him forget her. _

_**Review?**_


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